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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


















PRELUDES OF POETRY 
AND MUSIC 








































Copyright, 1916 

BY 

FLORENCE NOYES CURTIS 



DEC 26 1916 


©Cl. A 4 5554 4 


I 


DEDICATION 





Requests from friends for copies of the poems written by 
my daughter, Irene, led to the desire to put them into con¬ 
venient and permanent form. 

Dear letters have come testifying to the purity, earnest¬ 
ness, and inspirational idealism of her life, and it is hoped 
that this little volume may in a measure perpetuate that 
influence. 

After a struggle of three years against failing health, on 
April 7, 1916, the sweet spirit passed on, and all that is 
mortal now rests in the family lot at Anamosa, Iowa, on a 
beautiful hillside overlooking the junction of two rivers, 
which thread their way through a lovely vale shadowed by 
overhanging cliffs. 

In memory of her, and to the college, classmates, and 
friends whom she so dearly loved, this book is dedicated. 

Florence Noyes Curtis. 




































CONTENTS 


Poems 

A Darky Pastoral . 

Mah Baby Bruddah 
Dat Rabbit .... 

De Bugguh Man 
Crawfishin’ .... 
“Heart o’ GoV Sunlight" 
De Saw-Mill 

Ha’nted. 

Po' LiT Cottontail Rabbit 
“De Peace ob de Lawd” 

De Cabin in de Trees . 
The Dying Day . 

The Christmas Season . 
Christmas Eve . 

To P. F. B. 

Nocturne .... 
Christmas, 1914 
The Song .... 
Fragments .... 
Alone I Stood 
Why Fear Old Age . 

God Bless You . 

# 

Music 

The Darky Pastoral 

Voiceless. 

The Days Gone By 

Ivy Song. 

Minuet. 

The Witches' Dance 


15 

16 

17 

18 

19 

20 

22 

23 

24 

26 

27 

33 

34 

35 

36 

38 

40 

41 

42 

43 

43 

43 

46 

52 

57 

62 

66 

70 






























It was borne along 
On the breath of song — 

The soul of a maiden, pure and free. 

Her virtues and shy, rare sweetness blent 
Like the tones of a beautiful instrument. 

At her touch, new melodies sprang to birth, 

And gladdened her little spot of earth. 

The souls that her soul touched, first admired, 

And then were uplifted and inspired. 

It was borne along 
On the breath of song — 

The soul of a maiden, pure and free. 

Louisa Spear Wilson, 

Class of 1912. 


From The Smith College Alumnae Quarterly, July, 1916. 


INTRODUCTION 


“He passeth not from this world, ever, 

Who liveth in the memory of true friends” 

I N a few brief years as we count time Irene Curtis lived 
much and lived intensely. 

She was born at College Station, Texas, August 22, 
1890, and spent the first three years of her life there, her 
parents then removing to Washington, Louisiana, where she 
passed a happy childhood. This life in the South made a 
deep impression upon her sensitive nature, and the early 
years spent in quiet places remote from the whirl of city life 
gave these impressions opportunity to sink deep into her 
thoughtful mind. It was certainly this life that familiarized 
her with the negro mode of thought and expression and 
made the writing of dialect poems so natural to her when in 
later years she began to voice these childhood impressions. 

When she was thirteen years of age her home was 
removed to Chicago, where she entered upon the intense and 
varied life of study and cultural diversion of a large city. 

After graduating from the University High School in 
1908, she spent her freshman year at the University of Chi¬ 
cago. She graduated the same year, 1909, from The 
Columbia School of Music, having the signal honor to be 
chosen by the directors to play the concerto at Commence¬ 
ment, accompanied by a large orchestra made up of mem¬ 
bers of the Theodore Thomas orchestra. In the autumn 
she entered Smith College, from which she received the 
degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1912. It is interesting to note 

9 


Introduction 


that her major work was in Philosophy. Two of the three 
musical numbers that she contributed to the Commencement 
programs of that year are included in this book: “The 
Witches’ Dance,” which she orchestrated for the presenta¬ 
tion of “Macbeth,” and the “Ivy Song” music for Class Day. 

Her talent in music, both in execution and composition, 
had shown itself unmistakably when she began its study at 
eight years of age, her playing even then showing unusual 
brilliancy. The encouragement given in those early days 
stimulated her musical ambitions, bearing fruit later in the 
artistic quality of her playing, in a marked gift for composi¬ 
tion, and showing great promise for the future. She loved 
to commune with her piano, playing from the masters until 
late hours in the darkness, and improvising from her own 
unlimited store of melody and rhythm. Unfortunately, 
few of her compositions were ever prepared for publication, 
for with the diverse interests which engaged her attention, 
the developing and writing of them was of necessity de¬ 
ferred. 

The writing of verse began with her earliest use of the 
pencil, but the first dialect poems were written in her first 
year at Smith College, the occasion being her mother’s return 
from a sojourn in the old home in Louisiana, bringing back 
to the college girl in Massachusetts, in the midst of her stu¬ 
dent life, the interests and images of those earlier years spent 
in the region of the cotton, the cane-brake, and the “Cherokee 
rose.” Having at this time a paper to prepare for her Eng¬ 
lish class, and recalling the memories of old scenes, as she sat 
that evening overlooking the moonlit campus, “A Darky 
Pastoral” and the two succeeding poems were written. 
Other poems followed these during her college years. But 
after college came a period when music engaged her thought 

io 


Introduction 


until failing health made piano playing too arduous. Then, 
in December, 1914, she again turned to the pen for expres¬ 
sion and during that month the last four dialect poems were 
written, as well as “The Dying Day,” “The Christmas Sea¬ 
son,” “Christmas Eve,” “To P. F. B.,” “Christmas, 1914,” 
and “Fragments.” 

“She was an unusually interesting girl, with exceptional 
endowments and very likable,” Professor Gardiner of the 
Department of Philosophy of Smith College wrote, “and 
we looked, as she herself must have doae, to an exceptional 
fulfilment of so rare a promise as her young life seemed to 
give.” 

A rare strength and gentleness, a love for the beautiful, 
and a passion for perfection in all things she did, together 
with a keen interest in all the great problems of the day and 
a high sense of personal responsibility toward their solution 
were her most marked characteristics. 

The organizations of which she was an active member 
are an index to the diverse nature of her interests. She 
organized and was the first president of The Sketch Club of 
the University of Chicago High School, and after graduat¬ 
ing from college was an active member of the Chicago 
College Club, The Political Equality League, and the 
Amateur Musical Club. 

In contrast to these serious pursuits and interests was her 
intense enjoyment of all physical activities. Her childhood 
playmates remember her as “laughing-eyed and full of 
quickness.” The children who confessed themselves in awe 
of the little girl who performed such marvels at the piano 
were loyal in proclaiming her “the fastest runner on our 
street,” and this little girl with sparkling eyes, and flying 
braids of dark silken hair on a head exquisitely poised, 


11 


Introduction 


became the maiden who entered with zest into the work of 
the college gymnasium and who delighted in skating, row¬ 
ing, swimming, horse-back riding, dancing, tennis, in fact, 
in all out-of-door sports. 

Thus her life was by no means narrow. Friends recall the 
deftness and efficiency of her flexible, swift-moving fingers 
when she took up the needle and fashioned from dainty 
fabrics such apparel as all women love. 

She was never idle. It was as if she half unconsciously 
was carrying out the thought of Him who said “My Father 
worketh hitherto and I work;” for she had a deep religious 
sense, following out the teachings of her Master as faith¬ 
fully and joyously as those of her teachers in school, con¬ 
servatory, or college. 

Friends who were nearest to her in sympathy have writ¬ 
ten that they were ennobled and enriched because Irene 
Curtis had lived, had expressed her ideals, and had given 
them of her loyal friendship and had voiced her faith in 
mankind. 

Dr. Burton, president of Smith College wrote of her: 
“She made a distinct contribution to the life of this college. 
A line from George Eliot occurs to me as I think of her 
early death: ‘She has certainly fed the high tradition of the 
world and left her spirit safe in other breasts.’ ” 

One wishes that all the hopes of her life might have had 
fulfilment here, but the beauty of her character and the clear¬ 
ness of her soul, the influence of her aspirations, her devo¬ 
tion to music and all other things of an uplifting nature, 
which made her not only lovable but an inspiration to finer 
ideals and nobler living, will continue to live in the hearts of 
all who knew her, and in these selections from her poems 
and music here preserved for her friends. 

12 


DIALECT POEMS 






























Louisiana, by Frederick Richardson 














DIALECT POEMS 


A DARKY PASTORAL 



H, dey talks about de city 
Wid its shinin’ blin’in’ lights, 

But yo’ gib me dis heah country, 
An’ de lazy summuh nights. 

Ah sit in de do’ ob de cabin, 

An’ blink at de big roun’ moon, 
Whal mah mammy croons to de baby 
A sof’ li’l’ south’n tune. 


An’ de buhds go a-flying homewud, 

An’ de bats flop obuh de moon, 

An’ de screech-owls keep on a-screechin’ 
Whal mah mammy’s a-singin’ dat tune. 


Dat’s de sweetes’ kin’ o’ music, 

Dough mah mammy cain’t sing so fine, 
But it seems t’ go wid de moonlight 
An’ de smell ob de che’okee vine. 


Oh, dey talks about de city, 

But de country’ll do fo’ me, 

Wid de moon, an’ mammy a-singin’ 

An’ de screech-owl up dah in de tree. 
15 




Preludes of Poetry and Music 


MAH BABY BRUDDAH 


A H jes’ lubs mah baby bruddah 

W’en he sits an’ plays wid his toes 
^He’s so cunnin’ an’ fat an’ quiet 
An’ he’s got such a mite ob a nose. 


But gee! how dat young’n kin hollah 
Right out in de daid o’ de night; 

An’ its mighty po’ fun fo’ mammy, 
W’en he railly gits woun’ up tight. 

He kin beat any circus lion— 

But jes’ de same he’s sweet, 

An’ w’en he sits hol’in’ his toes dah, 
Mah bruddah jes’ cain’t be beat. 


Dialect Poems 


DAT RABBIT 

O NE day ah was sittin’ a-thinkin’, 
An’ right by de side o’ de road 
Cum a cute li’l’ baby rabbit, 

No bigguh dan a toad. 

An’ he looked so fuzzy an’ sof’-lak 
Dat ah wanted t’ hug ’im tight— 

But w’en ah sta’ted t’ kaitch ’im, 

He wusn’t no wheh in sight. 

Dat’s jes’ de way wid rabbits; 

Dey’s scaiht ef a leaf meks a noise, 
An’ dey’s scaihtuh still ob de hosses, 

An’ scaihtes’ o’ all ob de boys. 

Yo’ bet ah laks de rabbits— 

So cunnin’ an’ sweet an’ sof’, 

An’ ah wish dey’d lait me hug ’em, 

But seems lak dey got t’ run off. 

Mah daddy says dey eats cabbage 
An’ dey ought t’ be kilt off quick; 

But don’ cullud folks lak cabbage? 

An’ de rabbits jes’ take de bes’ pick. 


Preludes of Poetry and Music 


DE BUGGUH MAN 

D OWN in de woods by de bayou, 

Dey’s a house wid a funny ol’ man 
An’ mammy say he eats chillun 
An’ bu’ies de bones in de san’. 

She say ef ah don’ ten’ de baby, 

An’ min’ he don’ crawl out de do’, 

Dat de funny ol’ man ’ull kaitch me, 

An’ ah’ll nevuh git back no mo’. 

Daddy jes’ lafs w’en ah tell ’im, 

An’ says t’ min’ what mammy say, 

An’ ef ah’s good lak she tell me 
Dat de bugguhs won’ tek me away. 

An’ so ah nevuh goes fishin’, 

An’ ah nevuh kin da’ mek a noise; 

Ah jes’ stays t’ home wid de baby, 

’Stead o’ playin’ leap-frog wid de boys. 

Dey say de ol’ man won’ hu’t grown-ups, 
An’ mah dad don’ min’ fishin’ at night; 
An’ ah s’pose dat he kin play leap-frog— 
But he’s mighty brave all right. 

W’en ah’s a big man, ah’s a-goin’ 

An’ sen’ dat ol’ bugguh away, 

So he won’ git aftuh mah chillun 
An’ swalla’ ’em up some day. 

18 


Dialect Poems 


CRAW-FISHIN’ 

D OWN wheh de crick gets bigguh 

Dey’s a muddy ol’ craw-fish hole, 
An’ yo’ bettuh not try t’ go swimmin’ 
O’ yo’ll kaitch somefin wus’n a col’. 

But it’s mighty nice t’ kaitch craw-fish, 

An’ stick ’em into a pail, 

An’ ’en watch ’em squirm an’ wiggle' 
W’en de boys kaitch a hoi’ o’ de tail. 

An’ den it’s mighty excitin’ 

W’en yo’ railly do get a bite; 

Yo’ have to jes’ pull so slow-lak, 

An’ ’en ju’k ’em wid all yo’ might. 

An’ ah tell yo’ what, ’tain’t easy 
To get ’em in de pail tight 
’Cos a craw-fish’s good as a lobstuh 
Fo’ puttin’ yo’ up a ha’d fight. 

But jes’ de same, w’en ah’s fishin’, 

De paht dat ah laks de bes’ 

Is jes’ lookin’ down into de watuh, 

Feelin’ busy sorta, whal yo’ res’. 


19 


Preludes of Poetry and Music 


“HEART O’ GOL’ SUNLIGHT” 

L PL’ flower, Heart o’ Gol’, 

Dey calls yo’ “Buttercup”;— 
^Seems lak w’en ah smells o’ yo’ 

It so’t o’ cheahs me up. 

An’ w’en de sunlight’s sco’chin down 
As fah’s yo’ kin see, 

’T seems lak yo’ jes’ kaitch it all, 

An’ smiles it back at me. 

Yo’s alius makin’ halos 
By de ol* plantation gate, 

An’ at night yo’ Looks lak sta’light 
W’en ah comes f’um pickin’, late. 

Den yo’ so’t o’ seems to tell me, 

“Keep a-goin’, chil’, some mo’, 

An’ yo’ll fin’ yo’ mammy waitin’ 

Wid de baby at de do’.” 

Den ah hoi’s mah haid up highuh, 

An’ de shadduhs scoot away, 

An’ ah jes’ fo’gits de whip-poor-will 
An’ what de screech owls say. 


20 


Dialect Poems 


Fo’ ain’t yo’ mah fren’ at twilight, 
Lak yo’ is all t’ru de day? 

An’ ain’t ah helpin’ mammy 
Now dat daddy’s gone away? 

Oh, dey calls yo’ “LiT Buttercup,” 
Ah ain’t sayin’ dat ain’t right, 
But ah alius laks to call yo’ dis, 
“LiT Heart o’ GoP Sunlight.” 


21 


Preludes of Poetry and Music 


DE SAW-MILL 

O VUH on massah’s plantation, 

Wheh mah daddy wuks all day long, 
Dey’s de funnies’, dusty ol’ saw-mill, 
Dat’s a-singin’ de queeres’ song; 

It soun’s jes’ lak a big jew’s-ha’p, 

An’ eve’y hot aftuhnoon 
W’en mah bruddah ’n’ me plays ’possum, 

It sings us de putties’ tune. 

It jes’ goes up an’ down sof’-lak, 

An’ nevuh do stop fo’ a res’— 

An’ nex’ to mah mammy’s singin’ 

Ah laks de saw-mill de bes’. 

An’ way f’um de ben’ in de bayou 
De dus’-moun’s so shiny an’ bright 
Dat it looks jes’ lak a big gol’ bank, 

Way down in de sof’ gol’en light. 

But w’en ah goes down dah wid daddy, 

De dus’-moun’s jes’ gray lak a coon, 

An’ de saw-mill sta’ts howlin’ ’n’ schreechin’, 
’Staid o’ singin’ dat sof’ li’l’ tune. 

One day ah axed daddy’s massah 
Why de mill wouldn’ sing close to, 

An’ why, w’en yo’ got to de dus’-moun’, 

It didn’ look shiny an’ new. 


22 


Dialect Poems 


An’ he said, “Wal, ma boy, dat’s a quession 
Dat has puzzled yo’ massah to know, 
But some day yo’ll fin’ dat what glittuhs 
Ain’t alius real gol’ fo’ sho’.” 

An’ so ah keeps wond’rin’ an’ wond’rin’ 
’Cos he didn’ say no mo’, 

An’ ah keeps sayin’ ovuh an’ ovuh, 

“All’t glittuhs ain’t gol’ fo’ sho.’’ 


HA’NTED 

D E gred big sycamo’ am stan’in’ on de hill, 

An’ de rope’s still a-hangin’ wheh de niggah got 
strung, 

An’ de road along de hollow to de empty cotton-mill 
Am de ha’ntin’ place o’ all de folks ’at evuh got hung. 

One night Jim Rastus wus a-comin’ from a spree, 

An’ he passed dat sycamo’ a-ridin’ on his mule, 

He saw somethin’ spooky wus a-swingin’ from de tree, 

An’ his skin began a-creepin’ an’ a-yankin’ at his wool. 

Behin’ dat tree he hu’d a clankin’ an’ a rattle, 

An’ a long white skinny ahm a-wavin’ him to come, 

Den a big black hootin’ thing mos’ knocked him off his 
saddle, 

An’ he vowed he’d nevuh, nevuh tech anothuh drop o’ 

rum. 


23 


Preludes of Poetry and Music 


PO’ LFL’ COTTONTAIL RABBIT 

H YAH! What yo’ doin’ yo’ po’ white trash, 

A-shootin’ at things dat ain’t bothuh’d yo’ none? 
A-shootin’ to kill w’en yo’s feelin’ brash, 

An’ eatin’ po’ ca’casses jes’ fo’ de fun? 

Yo’ picks out a po’ li’l’ cottontail rabbit, 

A-racin’ his shadduh to see which’ll win, 

A-scamprin’ an’ scootin’ an’ doublin’ an’ turnin’, 

Jes’ ’j’yin’ hisself so de sun has t’ grin. 

Yo’ squints down yo’ gun w’en de critter ain’t lookin’, 

An’ aims w’en he stops jes’ a minute to res’, 

’N’en bang, an’ de smoke grabs yo’ lungs fo’ a minute 
An’ chokes all de pity what’s lef’ in yo’ bres’. 

Dat po’ li’l’ mite ob a cottontail rabbit 

Ain’t got no mo’ frisk dan a bag o’ co’n meal, 

An’ he hangs jes’ as limp f’um de end o’ yo’ musket 
As ef he wus sho’ he done got a squah deal. 

But somewheh way up wheh de buzza’ds cain’t circle, 

Dey’s Some’n, at leas’ so de ministuh said, 

Who keeps His eye peeled fo’ po’ white trash ’n’ rabbits, 
An’ cries ef He sees jes’ a sparrow ’ats daid. 


24 


Dialect Poems 


An’ Christians all loves Him, he tol’ all us felluhs, 

An’ nevuh goes shootin’ at rabbits an’ things 
An’ nevuh goes bustin’ up cities ’n’ people 

An’ droppin’ down bombs f’um balloons ’at’s got wings. 

W’en ah’s a real grown-up, ah’ll stop all dat fightin’, 

An’ smile at de folks dat seem needin’ a smile, 

An’ nevuh go huntin’ fo’ po’ li’l’ rabbits, 

’Cos bein’ real Christians is lots mo’ wuth while. 


25 


Preludes of Poetry and Music 


“DE PEACE OB DE LAWD” 


G 


WAN outdo’s, yo’ pesky young’n, 
Tryin’ t’ play on de kitchen flo’! 
Ain’t ah tol’ yo’ t’ play out yonduh? 
Quit pokin’ yo’ haid t’ru de open do’! 


Gimme dat gum! Ain’t yo’ nevuh quit chewin’ ? 

An’ min’ yo’ don’ sass yo’ mammy back! 

Yo’ bettuh be good o’ ah’ll lu’n yo’ to holluh! 

Now fetch me some taters f’um out o’ dat sack. 


Grab up dat bucket right sma’t now—yo’ heah me? 

An’ fetch me some watuh f’um out o’ de pump, 

An’ tote dese heah peelin’s an’ stuff t’ de pig-pen, 

An’ min’ dat yo’ hurry o’ ah’ll mek yo’ jump! 

Lan’ sakes, but dat young’n’ ’ull kill his po’ mammy— 
Ah ain’t had no peace since dat chile come aroun’; 
Dat niggah ain’t got no mo’ sense dan his daddy, 

De lazies’ niggah in dis heah ol’ town. 

Now pick up dat pitchuh, yo’ young good-fo’-nuthin’, 
An’ set dis heah buttuh plate nex’t’ de bread. 

Hyah! Grab up dat teapot—an’ min’ yo’ don’ spill it—! 
An’ don’ bus’ dat plattuh—o’ ah’ll bus’ yo’ haid! 

Shut up whal ah’s thankin’ de Lawd fo’ dese vittals! 

Now min’ yo’ don’ snickuh till ah’s counted ten— 
Deah Lawd, we’s sho’ thankful fo’ what’s heah befo’ us, 
An’ grant us de peace ob de Lawd—Amen! 
z6 


Dialect Poems 


DE CABIN IN DE TREES 

D E white magnolia blossoms smell so sweet; 

De yalla moon am hangin’ from de sky; 
Ah heah de soun’ o’ pickaninnies’ feet, 
A-cloggin’ fo’ to mek de time go by. 

De sof’ low hum o’ June bugs in de breeze; 

De fiah-flies a-winkin’ t’ru de grass; 

A peaceful sighin’ in de ’brella trees 
As ef dey’s settlin’ down to sleep at las’. 

A mockin’ buhd down in de ol’ oak tree 
Am singin’ fit to bus’ his li’l’ throat; 

It seems lak he sets sho’ nuf music free, 

An’ melted moonlight trickles from each note. 

De honeysuckle from de cabin eaves 

Done climb way up into de tho’n tree’s top, 
An’ mixin’ wid de prickly tho’ns an’ leaves 
Done fix dat tree a sight to mek yo’ drop! 

A bunch o’ yalla light—! Ah ’spec’ de moon 
Am thinkin’ she done got huh picture took, 
She’s grinnin’ lak a melon-eatin’ coon 

Becos she knows how gran’ she sho’ mus’ look! 

De cabin do’s wide open; on de flo’ 

De blackes’ li’l’ coon yo’ ebuh see 
Am crawlin’ ’roun’—his li’l’ dress am to’, 

But dat don’ mattuh much to him o’ me.— 

27 


Preludes of Poetry and Music 

De udduh pickaninnies cain’t be still 

No mo’ dan ef dey’s bubbles in de crick, 

An’ Jimmy has to tickle Sistuh Lil, 

An’ Rastus’ got to show who he kin lick. 

De chillun’s daddy sets an’ hoi’s his pipe 
Atween his lips, a-chucklin’ at de fun, 

Ah reckon he’s a-thinkin’ o’ de time 
W’en he cud lick de felluhs, ebry one. 

A husky strappin’ niggah in his youth, 

He’d ride de meanes’ hoss’ fo’ miles aroun’; 

Too big in frame to ebuh seem uncouth, 

He won de heart ob ebry gal in town. 

De chillun’s mammy rocks, half in a doze, 
A-speakin’ sha’p sometimes, to stop de noise, 

But happy an’ contented ’cos she knows 

Dey ain’t none finuh dan huh gals an’ boys. 

An’ sittin’ on de do’step, Chloe sings 

’Bout Mary ’n’ Martha goin’t’ ring dem bells, 

An’ cha’iots swingin’ low, an’ angels’ wings 
An’ othuh things de Jub’lee hymn-book tells. 

Dat niggah gal kin beat Miss Patti, sho\ 

Fo’ singin’ dat meks teahs come in yo’ throat, 

An’ w’en she stops, de chillun ax fo’ mo’, 

An’ once again dem sweet tones sky-wa’d float. 


28 


Dialect Poems 


Ah ax yo’, bruddah, city bred an’ bo’n, 

Don* yo’ get ti’ed o’ all dat mek-bleve joy? 

A-drinkin’ wine from twilight till de dawn, 
Pretendin’ life an’ love am jes’ a toy 

To play wid fo’ a li’l’ while, an’ sell— 

To sell becos yo’ done fo’got de tas’ 

O’ watuh f’um de ol’ plantation well— 

Fo’ feah a li’l’ wine ’ull go to was’? 

Oh, who kin doubt de bruddahhood o’ man, 
De ebuhlas’in’ kinship o’ de soul? 

De whites’ white man may be black widin, 

De blackes’ coon a shinin’ heart may hoi’. 



29 

















































. 








. 











































MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 








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[Written at the age of 11 years, after 
the death of her grandfather.] 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


THE DYING DAY 



\HE village lights are gleaming 
Through the misty veil 
Of dusk; the winter evening 
Sheds its snowy spell, 

And faint from farthest distance 
Sounds an evening bell. 

Too soon the pink of sunset 
Fades to violet gray, 

Empurpling the shadows 
Across the frozen bay, 

And leaving but a glimmer 
Of the dying day. 


33 



Preludes of Poetry and Music 


THE CHRISTMAS SEASON 

W HEN whistling winds with sleety breath 
Stretch icy fingers chill as death 
To clutch the newsboy’s shrinking ears 
And snatch his cap with boistrous cheers; 

When scurrying mortals, homeward bound, 

Draw tight their ulsters at the sound; 

When Jack Frost nips the cabbie’s nose, 

And pinches unprotected toes; 

When roaring hearth-fires mock the snow, 

Then gather in the mistletoe, 

And make your festive holly wreaths 
Of berries red, and prickly leaves; 

’Tis time to show the Christmas smile 
And put aside your cares awhile. 


34 


Miscellaneous Poems 


CHRISTMAS EVE 

T HE silver chimes of Christmas steal 
Thru frosty air of night; they peal 
Each eve before that wondrous day 
When Christ within a manger lay. 

The Titan artist dulls his paint, 

And sunset’s golden glow grows faint; 

Wee twitt’ring birds thru twilight chill 
Come flutt’ring homeward o’er the hill 
From wind-swept hill-tops white with snow 
A-sparkle in the sun’s last glow. 

The moon comes up, her silver light 
On winter’s garb forms diamonds bright; 

A radiant whiteness robes the land, 

And Christmas joy is near at hand. 

The hours pass by and thru the air 
Old Santa’s team of reindeer tear; 

Impatient at each small delay, 

They paw the air and dart away 
Upon a race most gladly run, 

A race with dawn which must be won,— 

To homes that fight grim poverty, 

To homes of midnight revelry, 

To homes at peace with all the world, 

To others where Peace’ flag is furled, 

And War holds power over all 

And o’er Christ’s birthday sheds his pall;— 

To these and many more he flew 

Until the sun came into view. 

Then Santa paused, his work all done, 

35 


Preludes of Poetry and Music 

He backward glanced to greet the sun— 
A smile so quaint, so sweet and fine 
That all his countenance did shine 
With love untold, such hope and joy 
As blackest woe could not destroy; 

And leaving with Old Mother Earth 
His Christmas gift, he blessed her hearth; 
He gave the angels’ benizon: 

“Joy, peace on earth, good will to men!” 


TO P. F. B. 

Christmas, 1914 

O H, little boy with eyes of blue 
And golden hair, 

I wonder now, what dreams have you 
As you sit there 

And gaze up at the Christmas tree 
All hung with toys. 

Oh don’t you think it’s nice to be 
Just little boys? 

And when you thank God for your joys 
At mother’s knee, 

Do you remember other boys 
Across the sea, 

Whose daddies won’t come home, not ever 
Any more, 

And play with them in rainy weather 
On the floor? 


36 


Miscellaneous Poems 


And do you think, perhaps, that when 
You’ll be a man, 

You’ll take good care of mother then, 

The best you can? 

I wonder what you’ll do and be 
As old time flies; 

I guess that God alone can see 
What future lies 

Within the scope of just one little 
Busy brain. 

He knows the answer to the riddle, 

Joy and Pain. 

He reads each heart and gladly hears 
Each prayer expressed, 

And helps your mother soothe your tears; 
And when you rest, 

He helps her tuck you in and kiss 
You “Goodie Night,” 

And says with her words just like this, 
“Now sleepie tight.” 

May angels guard your rest and keep you 
Free from fears, 

And may you to yourself be true 
Throughout the years. 


37 


Preludes of Poetry and Music 


NOCTURNE 

Largo 

W HEN all the world is motionless and gray, 

And thoughts come thronging to my sleepless 
brain, 

And ghosts of deeds that filled the restless day 
Pass by me in unending, fevered train, 

When to my weary heart a thankless past 
Displays the wraiths of failures, pitiless, 

And unwept tears well up within my heart, 

And friendships false mock true love, fathomless, 

The Lady of the Stars smiles down at me; 

A harmony of love and hope she breathes. 

The eerie moonlight falls on hill and tree, 

And wakes the souls of elfin melodies. 

If melody could flow, unheard, untuned, 

Save in the souls of fairy sprites asleep, 

And by some strange, half mystic kinship crooned 
To souls of men that silent vigils keep, 

Such melody were melody indeed; 

No instrument nor voice could catch its lilt, 

And sound, abashed, would die away unknown, 

Or brave its shade, man’s cruder art to jilt. 


38 


Miscellaneous Poems 


True music is the poetry of sound, 

A bond between the music of the spheres 

And mankind’s rhythmic soul—life’s theme profound— 
A subtle song which each true artist hears. 

Fantasia 

And soft across the mystic moonlit stillness 
I dream the tinkle of an elfin bell; 

Is that a sparkling fairy banner flaunted, 

Or spider’s dew-decked web ? I cannot tell. 

Was that a fairy touch upon my forehead? 

The gentle breath of zephyrs on my brow? 

And do I dream of airy fairy castles 

Where elves of pleasant thoughts are dancing now? 

Oh, all the world’s a dream of mystic wonder, 

Which our poor earth-glazed eyes can never see, 

Save fitfully, where fairy fancy chooses 

With moonbeams’ magic wand to make men free. 


39 


Pkeludes of Poetry and Music 

CHRISTMAS, 1914 

T HE Master’s saddened, piteous gaze 

Sweeps o’er the earth in strange amaze; 
On many a blackened field laid waste 
By war’s unjust and murderous haste 
It falls; on meadows cloaked in snow 
Where blood-red footprints mark the foe; 

On villages that plundered lie 
In ruins left as war sweeps by. 

He hears thru moonlit peace of night 
A starving child’s low moan of fright, 

A woman’s sob, who patient waits, 

While reas’ning man fights out his hates; 

The staring eyes and hollow rattle 
That mark Death’s prisoners in battle; 

The brute look in men’s eyes set free— 

Alas, that such a thing should be! 

Oh, woe unto a Christian land, 

That brave men should as murd’rers stand! 
For months the tide of murd’rous strife 
Sweeps on; the sound of drum and fife 
Ensnares fresh victims for the flood 
That makes whole nations mad for blood; 
And thousands now unburied lie 
Without a loved one’s tear or sigh, 

The manhood of a nation’s homes 
A mass of whitened, bleaching bones! 

And Christmas day comes on apace 
To dawn upon a warring race, 

A race which worships that same babe 
Who came to earth, mankind to save. 

40 


Miscellaneous Poems 


THE SONG 


K 


MOCKING bird sat on the limb of a tree 
And warbled the long summer night; 

He warbled and warbled as blithe as could be 
To a world lying hushed in moonlight. 


The stars overhead seemed to hang from the sky 
As if breathless to catch each new rapture, 

That rose from that fairy throat upward so high, 
And sank back men’s hearts to recapture. 

The song found its way to the heart of a man, 
And what was it doing there? 

Releasing a sorrow and easing a pain, 

It returned to God in prayer. 


4i 


Preludes of Poetry and Music 


FRAGMENTS 

I 

G ROPING little baby fingers 

Stretching up toward mother’s face, 
Puckered frown of contemplation, 

Then a coo of heavenly grace. 

Little brother of the angels, 

Smiling up from mother’s knee, 

How they ever let you leave them 
I shall never really see. 

II 

R EST, little boy, on mother’s breast. 

’Tis slumber time dear 
^ And the sand-man is here. 

The moon slips over a great cloud crest, 

The wind brings a lullaby out of the west, 

And wee twitt’ring birds are asleep in the nest, 
And God is always near. 

Sleep, little boy with the tired eyes. 

Come get you to bed, 

Little nodding head. 

Your heaven-blue eyes are Mother’s skies, 

In your golden hair Mother’s sunset lies, 

Your smile is the gay little sunbeam that flies 
To comfort where tears have been shed. 

42 


Miscellaneous Poems 


ALONE I STOOD 


A lone i stood, 

And the calm hill-top echoed my silent mood; 
bM watched the moon as it ’blazoned the clouds with 
silver light, 

And the still sky with countless flickering stars bedight; 
And I thought as I gazed at the wonders of the night, 

“Is God not good?” 


WHY FEAR OLD AGE? 

W HY fear old age? 

’Tis foolish, friend, to dread what God hath made; 
’Tis only he who has sown and reaped but ill 
That fears to rest when all is calm and still 
Beneath the shade. 


43 


Preludes of Poetry and Music 


“GOD BLESS YOU” 

T WILL soon be summer, friend, 

And when we bid goodbye to those we love, 
Perhaps for aye, 

And seek for words to let them know our love, 
Why search so long? 

Will not “God bless you,” do? 

That message, friend, do I now leave with you. 



44 




* 





































































































X 

























MUSIC 


A DARKEY PASTORAL 

Trio for Women’s Voices. 


With characteristic rhythm. 


Words and Music 
By IRENE CURTIS. 




46 


























































































































































































































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VOICELESS 

Words by Music by 

VIRGINIA FLAGG. IRENE CURTJS. 












































































































53 































































































































































































































































































































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56 














































































































































































































































THE DAYS GONE BY 


Poem by 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 


Music by 
IRENE CURTIS. 





57 
































































































































































































































































































































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61 


















































































































































Words by IVY SONG 

HILDEGARDE HOYT Com P 03 ed for Class Day, 1912, at Smith College. 


Music by 
IRENE CURTIS. 




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Old with the. death of a - ges dead, And the year’s un-meas-ured span. 


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Slowly and questioningly. 


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How will the great world greet us? 


Will it flout our help - less 



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mes-sage of daunt - less truth_The joy of life and the 


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love of life We bring to the world that is old;_ With 


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MINUET 


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IRENE CURTIS 




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69 










































































































































































IRENE CURTIS 


WITCHES DANCE 

Composed for the presentation- of “Macbeth^in 1912 at 8mith College 




70 
















































































































































































































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72 






































































































































73 












































































































































































































































» 













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* 












































































